


In which Doyle loses ten quid

by ODG



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Could be worse - could be unnecessary footnotes, Just assume all anachronisms are intentional, M/M, Mostly plot despite my best efforts, People being oblivious about the obvious, Unnecessary parentheses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-05-25 02:57:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14967620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ODG/pseuds/ODG
Summary: A case leads to Doyle being reunited with someone from his past. Bodie is very unhappy with this development.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am truly terrible at titles.

Bodie sighed. You would have thought, given Doyle’s aptitude for undercover work, that he would be better at hiding his feelings. But no, here he was at Serious Crimes headquarters, propped against one wall and glaring at all and sundry. Bodie had noticed more than one hardened criminal being frogmarched across the room avoid making eye contact with Doyle.

Doyle’d dressed for the occasion too. He was wearing his most disreputable pair of jeans, a t-shirt that once, many washes ago, might have said something about the Sex Pistols (even though Ray claimed to believe they were a bunch of tossers), and the jacket that looked like he'd nicked it off a tramp. He wasn't lowering the tone of the place, but he was certainly giving it his best shot. Cowley often talked about the importance of dressing to convey a message; this felt like Doyle’s way of saying bugger off to the Met. There was no way Doyle'd been allowed to get away with looking like that when he was in the police. Even on the vice squad. Well, maybe undercover, as a tramp or a... Well, never mind.

Mind you, Doyle had been in a foul mood for the last week. No rhyme or reason to it. Didn't help that that idiot Turner had managed to completely piss off Detective Superintendent Laughton at the Met, to the extent that he'd told Cowley to send someone else. Cowley, who hated being dictated to, had, with great irritation, pulled Bodie and Doyle off the Hemsworth job and sent them replace Turner. Bodie didn't see why they had to be punished for Turner’s screw up. Cowley had told the two of them to be tactful. Doyle had just glared at Cowley. Not a promising beginning.

On the plus side the headquarters of Serious Crimes was just as spartan as the offices of CI5. Didn't seem fair that going around saying “what's all this then?” and waving a truncheon rated higher than being shot at. He turned around to share this thought with Doyle, saw his face, and thought better of it. Doyle was touchy about comments about the police at the best of times, and he didn't want to be the person who set Doyle off right now.

Well then. Bodie rubbed his hands together and headed back to the duty sergeant on the desk who had been ostentatiously ignoring them. “CI5. Here to see Detective Superintendent Laughton.”

“I'll remind him you're here. You can take a seat.” The duty sergeant gestured in a perfunctory way at a row of plastic chairs, all of which had seen better days. Bodie felt personally affronted by his complete lack of enthusiasm. Where was the jealousy? What kind of self-respecting policeman wouldn't want to be running around London shooting things?

Bodie just settled for standing and looking menacing. First impressions were important.

Laughton finally appeared ten minutes later. He was a big man, dressed in a suit that had been bought twenty years ago for a man twenty pounds lighter. Even Cowley, a man who steadfastly believed in the mantra of waste not want not, would have disapproved.

Bodie extended his hand to Laughton. “I'm Bodie. That's Doyle over there.”

Doyle didn't bother to move. Laughton gave Doyle the kind of look that usually accompanied comments about mandatory military service, and an unspoken accord to ignore each other was reached.

“We don't need CI5 here.” Laughton must have been worried that leaving the two of them hanging around the lobby for ten minutes had been too subtle.

Bodie refused to take the bait. “No doubt. We’ll be gone, just as soon as we get the information we need to prevent a large smoking hole somewhere in London. Assuming of course, that this isn't a wild goose chase.”

“As I said, we don't need your help. We're quite capable of dealing with that terrorist scum ourselves.”

There was a snort from somewhere in Doyle's general vicinity. Both Bodie and Laughton chose to ignore it. Sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could leave, Bodie reminded himself. “So this supercomputer of yours? The one that can allegedly tell us where our terrorists are hiding out?”

“Taff can tell you all about that. I'll show you to where he works.”

Laughton led them through the warren of the building at a speed that Bodie wouldn’t have thought he was capable of. Laughton had obviously also come to the conclusion that the sooner he got this over with, the sooner the Bodie and Doyle would be off the premises.

They found Taff tucked into a dingy corner of the building. Bodie tried to figure out whether this was a measure of disrespect for the alleged “supercomputer” or a problem inherent to the building. A bit of both, he reckoned. Laughton made the introductions with an air that he indicated that he didn't think highly of any of them.

Taff turned out to be a tall elegant man with dark brown hair and expensive taste in clothes. Bodie, who had accepted the inevitable after the Krivas incident, found himself mourning the halcyon days when he got to wear a double-breasted jacket and silk tie. Maybe there was something to be said for the Met if it enabled you to afford Jermyn Street tailoring and wear it without worrying about some thug getting his blood all over it. Or worse, your blood.

Doyle, Bodie noted rather irritably, smiled for the first time that day. “Thomas! I didn't know you'd joined the Met.”

Thomas gave a half smile. “Not as a copper. I'm just a civilian consultant.”

“I take it the two of you know each other?” asked Bodie.

Doyle nodded. “I was art school with Thomas's...”

“Ex-partner,” finished Thomas with a subtle jerk of his head towards Laughton.

Doyle gave Thomas a look that could have meant anything. Thomas gave him a look back that clearly said keep your mouth shut. Bodie knew that look well, and good luck to Thomas. Keeping his mouth shut wasn't one of Doyle's strengths. Not that it mattered: he didn't think Laughton was under any illusions and it wasn't as if Bodie cared who or what Thomas dated. There was only one person whose sex life mattered to Bodie, and that was one of those subjects best left alone.

Laughton coughed. “Taff can give you the information you want. If you'll excuse me.” It wasn’t intended as a request.

Doyle gave a long considering look towards Laughton’s retreating back and then turned to Thomas. “Taff?”

“Laughton lacks imagination. I suppose I should be grateful that he deigned to give me a nickname that was acceptable in polite society.”

“Let me guess; you've been baiting him?”

Thomas gave him a Mona Lisa smile. “Haven’t had to. He took one look at me when I joined the team a month ago ago and decided he didn’t approve of me. Doesn't approve of your lot either. You are, and I quote, ‘a bunch of power-hungry thugs.’ How did you think I came to be your liaison?”

“A diplomatic snub then.”

“Precisely. Of course, Laughton’s too thick to realize that it's going to be wasted on you. His loss, your gain. And if you come this way, I can show you exactly what I've been doing, and this way, it doesn't have to get filtered through a third party. Laughton doesn't understand computers and doesn't want to. Mind you I'm not sure that it's going to be much help in your case, but I'll see what I can do. It's probably easiest if I explain with an actual case. I'm currently working on the Kilburn Ripper case, so I can show you what we've generated so far in the way of data.” Thomas pulled out a file folder containing an enormous stack of fanfold paper.

Bodie sighed. “Is this a good time to tell you I don't understand computers much and don't care to?” Computers were Doyle's thing. He even had one at home.

Thomas didn't look offended. “Let's start with the basic theory first then. Did your boss explain it to you?”

Doyle rolled his eyes to indicate how likely that was. “He said that the Met had a computer they claimed could help find the terrorists, so could we just go over and take a look? That was about as much explanation as we got. So, tell us about this crime-solving computer of yours? I assume you're the one who programmed it?”

“All me. What I'm doing is something called geographic profiling. There's a theory that you figure out where a criminal lives from where he carries out his crimes. Criminals tend to only travel a certain distance, there are areas they’re familiar with, or more comfortable with, or... The psychologists can explain why it works better than me. I just analyze the data and program the computers. Of course, it works better when you're looking at individuals rather than groups. Serial killers are a good fit for geographic profiling.”

“Like the Ripper.”

“Like the Ripper, yes.” Thomas pulled out a crude map of northwest London with a bunch of scribbling on it out of a file. “So we've got five attacks, here and here and so on. We put this data into the computer, and that gave us this.” He pulled another crudely drawn map, this one with shading on it, highlighting certain areas. These areas are where the Ripper most probably lives.”

Doyle looked doubtfully at the map. “That's still an awful lot of people.”

“We can combine it with the profile the psychiatrists worked up. Male. Early thirties to early fifties. Employed. Coroner says he's right handed. Average height. Reasonably fit. Cuts it down a bit.”

“Still don't have him, though.”

Thomas sighed and lowered his voice. “It took a while for anyone to catch on, and even longer for anyone to care. There's a bunch of the constabulary who don't care for prostitutes and even more who feel that way about rent boys. There's one charmer on Serious Crimes who thinks chasing after him is a waste of time, since he's ‘cleaning up London’. And that bloke’s actually working on the case.”

“Sick bastard.”

“My colleague or the Ripper? At this point I'm going to have to have an actual address complete with post code for the Ripper before anything gets done.”

Doyle looked thoughtful. “So if you can figure out where he lives, more or less, from where he’s been, can you tell where he’s likely to strike in the future?”

“Sort of, although it’s even more imprecise than the map of where he lives.” Thomas pulled out another folder and opened it up. “Here you go. These are predicted locations where the Ripper might kill his victim.”

It looked like a significant portion of London. Bodie said so.

“Realistically, at this point we’re most likely to catch him by accident. Someone walks into the wrong alley at the right time or the Ripper’s wife starts getting suspicious about the strange bloodstains on her husband’s shirts.”

“Ok, if the Ripper’s the best case scenario, what about our bunch?”

“Terrorists? Bit harder. Talked to the psychiatrists and they said since they're not hitting obvious political targets like Downing Street or commercial targets like Oxford Street we've got a bit more of a chance. It's not kick most people know or care about Albion Jewellers, for example.”

“CI5 does,” said Doyle with a sigh. “Lots of Middle Eastern sheikhs shopping there. Be a bit of an international incident if one of them got blown up while shopping for tiaras.”

“We've been lucky so far,” added Bodie. “No deaths, and only two minor injuries. The People's Whatever Front may object to the invasion of England by ‘petrocrats’ and those who collaborate with them, but they don't seem to want to kill them. Cowley’d like us to find them before they decide to move up to executing collaborators and sheikhs.”

Doyle handed Thomas the file containing the list of all the attacks. “Here's the info. There's a couple of them that didn't make the news. Puts off clients if they think they're going to be flambeed.”

Thomas opened up the file and starting flicking through, raising one eyebrow when he got to the details of a store that had recently been closed for ‘renovations’. “Let me get this into the computer, and start running the analysis. Can't promise you that it’ll come up with anything interesting, but I'll do my best. I'll let you know if I come up with anything useful.”

Doyle nodded.

“I don’t suppose you have a list of all of these kinds of stores that haven’t been attacked? Might be helpful to see if there’s any pattern to the ones they’ve chosen.”

“Susan likes shopping,” said Bodie cheerfully. “We’ll get her to produce a list and bring it to you.”

“You may want to put that differently to Susan,” suggested Doyle. “Otherwise your dreams of a brood of little Bodies will be at an end.”

“Don’t worry about me, mate. Birds are putty in my hands.”

“Actual mammals, though...”


	2. Chapter 2

It was Doyle's turn to pick up Bodie Thursday morning. A quick message on the RT summoned Bodie down to the car where Doyle was waiting. Doyle had his sunglasses on and a general air of lassitude. He was, Bodie noted, wearing the same disreputable jeans as yesterday, but had replaced the t-shirt with a cream linen shirt that Bodie had never seen him wear before. The wheels in Bodie’s brain started spinning.

“Late night, was it?” Bodie asked as he slid into the car.

Doyle turned his head to look at Bodie. “A bit, yeah.” There was a long pause as Doyle deftly slid the car into traffic. “So how was your evening with Melanie?”

“Michelle.” Bodie had known Doyle long enough to recognize when Doyle wasn't telling him something. “And how was the lovely Stephanie?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Stephanie dumped me weeks ago. She's found herself a nice dermatologist.” Doyle looked less upset about this than Bodie would have expected, Stephanie having fallen squarely into the category of Doyle's Ideal Bird. “Apparently dermatologists work proper schedules and actually turn up for dates.”

Bodie rubbed his hands together. “So who’s her replacement?”

“No one.” Doyle steered the car around a lorry that had inexplicably decided to start unloading in the middle of the street.

“So who was this long night with then?”

“Thomas and I went it for a drink. Caught up on old times.”

“Where did you and Thomas go?”

A long pause. “Went out for a meal at San Lorenzo. Talked. You know.”

“No I don’t know. That’s why I'm asking. What do you art boys get up to?”

Doyle turned his head to give him a long considering look. “Probably the same things you do when you get together with your ex-army mates. Anyway Thomas wasn't an ‘art boy’. He was always about computers. Joe, his ex, was the artist. Pretty talented, Joe was.”  

Bodie didn't want to know about Joe-the-ex. “You went to San Lorenzo?”

“Don't worry, Bodie. Not turning extravagant on you. Thomas paid.”

Bodie’s brain was adding two and two together and coming up with a number that he was deeply unhappy about. San Lorenzo was not the kind of place you took an old mate to get caught up with. It was the kind of place you took a bird you wanted to impress. “That was nice of him.”

“Was a bit. He said after the day he'd had, he wanted a good meal and a decent bottle of wine. Wine was a bit more than decent. Bit more than a bottle too.” Clearly misinterpreting Bodie’s stony silence, Doyle added “You shouldn't be worried by me taking advantage of Thomas. I offered to go to Wimpey’s instead. He refused.”

Bodie resisted pointing out that he wasn't worried about Doyle taking advantage of Thomas. “And they let you in wearing that, sunshine?”

Doyle looked down. “Oh, yeah. The jeans. Nah. Thomas leant me a suit. Was nice. Can see why people like being rich.”

Bodie ground his teeth.

There was a message for Doyle tucked into his cubby hole at CI5. Thomas, Doyle brightly informed Bodie, had come up with something.

Bodie ground his teeth again.

Unlike Doyle, Thomas seemed completely untouched by the previous night’s dissipations. He was, thought Bodie, a good-looking man, if you liked that sort of thing. Which, as he happened to know, Doyle most definitely did not. Straight as an arrow was Doyle.

Still Bodie couldn't help but notice that as Thomas explained the results from the computer, he was standing much closer to Doyle than might be considered appropriate. And Doyle didn't seem to be bothered. Sure, Bodie was standing closer to Doyle, but they were partners, weren't they?

“So what do you think, Bodie?”

Bodie snapped back to consciousness. “Whatever you think, sunshine.”

Thomas, it turned out, had not only run the data they’d given him but also cross-referenced it with the list of finer shopping establishments Susan had put together. And his bloody computer had actually turned up something.

“Fairdale’s first,” said Doyle as they headed to the car. “One of those places that’s so posh, you have to make an appointment to shop there. Sterling silver whatnots and all in the best possible taste. Turner thinks the People’s Front have been casing the places ahead of their midnight bombing runs, so we’ll have a chat with them. See if they’ve noticed any disreputable characters around the place, the usual. ”

***

Strange how the world works, thought Bodie. You might think that Fairdale’s, used as they were to the kind of people who happily spent five figures on jewellery, might object to Doyle. But no. They were greeted with enthusiasm and, even if they were speedily ushered out of the showroom into the manager’s office, it was in a way that suggested they were valued company rather than an inconvenience. Maybe it was the shirt Doyle was wearing. Bodie suspected it was exceedingly expensive.

An elegant blonde with an accent that suggested an expensive education at Roedean brought them tea in cups with the store’s logo on it and promptly sat down in the manager’s chair. Looks just like Doyle’s type, though Bodie. Should encourage him to try his hand.

“I’m Pamela Fairdale,” she said, ignoring the usual formalities. “And you are Mr Bodie and Mr Doyle from CI5.” Was it Bodie’s imagination or was there a faint emphasis on the ‘mister’ before Doyle’s name? “I assume this is about the recent incidents?”

Doyle grinned. “Little Pammy. All grown up.”

Pamela Fairdale’s smile grew frosty. “Raymond. I heard you’d made a career change.” So not Bodie’s imagination, then.

Doyle didn’t look the slightest bit perturbed. “These things happen. How’s Nobby?”

“Fine. No thanks to you.”

Doyle sighed. “He knew what he was doing.” He turned to Bodie. “I knew Pamela’s husband...”

“Ex-husband.”

“...in a professional capacity.”

Of course he did. Bodie turned the full wattage of his charm on to Pamela Fairdale. Given her reaction to his partner, he was going to be doing all the work here. “You know about the recent incidents?”

“Of course I do. Someone from CI5 called us to let us know a week ago.”

Well, that explained how Susan had come up with the list so fast. “We have reason to believe you might be one of the future targets.”

Pamela raised a carefully groomed eyebrow. “We have a first class security system and storage for the jewellery. Customers are required to have appointments to even enter the store.”

Since Pamela seemed to be pointedly ignoring Doyle, Bodie continued, “Which is good to hear. But we still have concerns. Over the past two weeks have you had any unusual customers?”

“I’ll assume that you mean people who might be casing the joint, so that rules out our regulars and anyone who actually bought something. We’ve had a couple of sheikhs, some dreadfully vulgar Americans, and a marchioness who I suspect was trying to pluck up the courage to ask us to buy the family jewels. Would you like their names?”

“That would be helpful.”

Pamela picked up a handwritten list and gave it to Bodie. “I would, naturally, appreciate some level of discretion when you talk to these people. I would hate for daddy to have to complain to the Minister about CI5.”

“I’m sure the Minister would hate that too,” muttered Doyle.

Pamela ignored him. “Is that everything, Mr Bodie?”

Cowley couldn’t have been clearer that they were dismissed.


	3. Chapter 3

“And then he shouted ‘death to the capitalist bourgeoisie.’”

Somehow Susan had ended up being the person called when Fairdale’s had been robbed. It should have been Bodie or Doyle since they were in charge of the case, but apparently Pamela Fairdale’s dislike for Doyle had been extended to Bodie. The terrorists had changed their MO, and instead of a mid-morning attack, they had assaulted the assistant manager as he was unlocking the front door at eight in the morning. Despite Pamela’s confidence in her store’s security, it had not been a match for two people with a gun and a highly nervous assistant manager who knew the security codes.

“Seriously, that’s what he shouted?” asked Doyle who was cradling a mug of tea and looking irked by life.

“Could have been a woman with a cold, the manager said.”

Bodie was wondering just how accurate the manager’s recollection of events was. The manager was more shocked than injured, but no one was at their best at remembering details when a gun was pointed at them.

“Sounds a bit stagey.”

Susan shrugged. “They do seem far more focussed on robbing the places they hit than publicizing their somewhat nebulous cause.”

Doyle looked thoughtful. “You think they’re robbers pretending to be terrorists?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out. Garrick did a quick onceover of the place, but they never took their gloves off, so no fingerprints, and all they left was a spray painted message that said ‘capitalist scum’. Both words were spelled correctly.”

“Which excludes some of our more enterprising villains.”

Bodie sighed. Given the circumstances, there was only one logical action to take. “I suppose,” he said, “we should talk to Thomas again.”

Doyle perked up. “We’ll get him to add in the details from Fairdale’s and tell us what the next two most likely places to be hit. We’ll place a couple of people in the stores and see what happens.””

***

Bodie looked up as the door opened and a customer walked in to Iverson & Groves. If you rolled every stereotype about Americans into one, you’d end up with the man who’d just walked into the store. Jeans. Stetson. Cowboy boots. Appallingly vulgar watch.

“Well, howdy there, partner.”

It could have been worse, Bodie supposed. Doyle could have dressed up as a sheikh.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Ah’m looking for something for the wife. She likes diamonds.” Did Americans really sound like that in real life?

“Of course, sir,” said Bodie as he led Doyle towards a display case, adding, sotto voce, “You look like you escaped from Dallas.”

“Well, ain’t that right nice of you? These boots are made from gator skin. Ah killed that gator myself.” Bodie could feel Joanne across the room wince.

“Is that so, sir?” Bodie pulled out a tray of the largest and ugliest rings. “What do you think, sir?”

Doyle picked up a ring that weighed only slightly less than his Browning and slowly examined it. “Anyone suspicious been in?” he said quietly.

“Couple of sheikhs. Real ones, mind you, since they were speaking in Arabic and spent a lot of money. Joanne over there got that sale. And a Tory MP who’d obviously done something naughty, since he was buying a apology present for his wife...”

“Cowley will be interested in that.”

“...and no one else. It’s amazing these places stay in business. Did Susan have anything to say?”

Doyle shook his head. “Same as you. Although she did sell a mink coat, so she’s hoping that Cowley will let her keep the commission.”

“Fat chance,” replied Bodie.

Doyle returned the ring he was holding to the case with a dismissive shake of the head. “What time you off tonight? Want to get a pint once you’re done selling appalling jewellery?”

“Not having drinks with Thomas tonight?” asked Bodie before he could stop himself. “You've been seeing a lot of him lately.”

Doyle smiled. “Not tonight. He's busy. Actually, he’s got...”

“If you’re looking for something larger, sir...” said Bodie, who didn’t want to hear what Thomas had. Scratch that, he desperately wanted to know what Thomas had that he didn’t. But it wasn’t like he could ask Doyle just what his relationship was with Thomas. So Doyle, you and Thomas having it off? Doyle’d either punch him (and then start wondering why Bodie thought he was gay) or confirm that Bodie was right, and Bodie just wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“So that’s a no then?”

See how Doyle felt, having his partner be too busy for him. “That would be a no. Sir. Now is there anything else I can help you with?”

***

Susan was looking extremely pleased with herself, as well she might. She’d overcome the two suspects without a shot being fired and they’d started babbling their confessions before they got anywhere close to CI5 headquarters. Nothing like a reputation for thumbscrews.

Their suspects (now “the accused”) had indeed turned out to be common or garden robbers pretending to be terrorists.

Susan, Bodie, and Doyle were now sitting in the tiny cubby hole that passed as Bodie and Doyle’s office while Doyle typed up the report for Cowley. Susan had told them that since she’d gone to the bother of nicking the accused, Bodie and Doyle could have the honour of writing the report.

Plus she had a date.

“So did I,” said Bodie mournfully. “And I don’t see why we have to write a report. They’re now the Met’s problem, not ours.”

“Because the Cow likes his paperwork,” muttered Doyle, the one person in the room who didn’t have plans for that evening. “If the two of you dictate and I type fast, we should all be out of here in plenty of time.”

Bodie smirked. Doyle usually ended typing up their reports for the simple reason he used all ten fingers and Bodie only used two, and neither of them enjoyed sitting around while Bodie figured out where any given letter was on the keyboard.

(Doyle had once suggested that Bodie take typing classes. Bodie hadn’t talked to him for a week.)

Bodie dictated, Susan interjected, and Doyle typed. Bodie suspected that Doyle was making editorial changes as he went (Bodie’s rhapsodical description of one of the watches he’d handled at Iverson & Groves only took Doyle five keystrokes), but wasn’t about to call Doyle on it. Doyle’d only make him type the rest of the report.

Judging from Susan’s caustic remarks, she hadn’t enjoyed being a shopgirl any more than Bodie had enjoyed being a sales assistant. Although she did admit that the side-benefits were good. (Doyle didn’t bother including that information, Bodie noticed.) Cowley must have let her keep the money from the mink.

“... and then we transferred the suspects to the custody of the Met... spell that out in full, Doyle, Cowley doesn’t like abbreviations, and....”

“I know that.”

“...we’re done.”

Doyle hit the final full stop unnecessarily hard, and pulled the paper out of the typewriter with a grand flourish. “Twenty to six,” he announced. “Plenty of time for the two of you to get ready for your respective evenings of debauchery. Just need you to sign here, Bodie, and I’ll go stick it in the Cow’s in tray.”

Bodie signed.

Doyle picked up the report. “Now, don’t let Michelle keep you up all night. Same to you Susan.”

“I,” said Susan with great dignity, “don’t date air hostesses. I like to have actual conversations with the people I date.”

“I will have you know,” said Bodie with even greater dignity, “that these are well-travelled women who have been to many interesting countries and have insights that you couldn’t even...”

The telephone rang.

Doyle, who had been glaring at Bodie, scowled at the phone. “How the bloody hell does Cowley even know we’re still here?”

Well, there went Bodie’s evening. “Just pick it up, sunshine.”

“Doyle here. Yeah. You?” So not Cowley then. “Oh.” Doyle looked at Bodie. “That could work. Where?” Another pause. “See you there.” He hung up the phone. “That was Thomas. Wants us to meet him for a drink in half an hour.”

And on the bright side, wrapping up the case meant he never had to see Thomas. again. Now if he could just steer a nice stewardess in Doyle’s direction, that would be the last Doyle saw of him too.

“Give him my best. I’ll give yours to the lovely Michelle.”

Doyle crossed his arms. “Us, I said. He wants to meet us. He needs our help with something.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate Ross is just so much fun to write.

Thomas had rejected the two nearest pubs on the grounds that he wanted to go somewhere not frequented by members of the Met. Instead he took them to a pub that on the outside looked completely unprepossessing. Inside was another matter.

Much to Bodie's amazement, Doyle ordered and paid for drinks for the four of them. (Susan had decided to tag along. Bodie wondered what she’d told her date.)

The weather was just warm enough to sit outside, so Thomas led them to a table and chairs and settled down with his pint.

“You going to tell us what’s wrong now? I’m assuming the purpose of this,” Doyle waved his arm in the general direction of the building, “was so that no-one can listen to us.”

“I’m probably being a bit over cautious,” said Thomas, “but...”

“But?”

“It’s the Ripper case,” said Thomas slowly. “You know how I explained to you that there are patterns. The guy kills within a certain geographical area. Well, the Ripper’s last killing wasn’t in the area that the computer predicted.”

“Maybe the Ripper moved? Got a new job?”

“That’s just it: I can think of a number of rational explanations. Maybe the algorithm is wrong. Maybe he’s moved. Maybe he’s just gotten more confident. It’s not necessarily a red flag. But...”

“But?”

“It was six and a half weeks between the last killing and this killing. The interval between killings before that was four weeks. Serial killers don’t tend to slow down; in fact it tends to be the reverse. But maybe the guy’s been out of town. Maybe the algorithm is wrong. It's a fairly new technology. But there's another possible explanation.”

“You think the Ripper could be a copper,” said Doyle thoughtfully.

Thomas's head jerked up. “How did you guess?”

“They don't just hire us for our looks. Well, maybe Bodie. He's always reminding me he's tall, dark, and beautiful.”

“Is he now?”

Something in Thomas's tone made Bodie slightly uneasy. “So. Possible copper. You think that he's gotten wind of the profiling software and decided to throw it off by choosing a new and different location.”

“I think it's a possibility. What really makes me nervous is the time frame. Four weeks ago I produced my initial analysis for the Ripper team. The team would have known what the computer was meant to be doing, but not the kind of information it was going to produce. And if the Ripper then decided he needed to find somewhere that didn't fit in with the predictions, that would account for the delay.” Thomas gave a kind of half-smile. “The good news is only three people have seen the results, so that narrows down the pool of suspects.”

“And I suppose,” said Doyle, “that Detective Superintendent Laughton is one of those three. Which means, even if he gave the impression he had any faith in your software, you can't talk to him about the problem, because he's one of the suspects.”

“You see the problem.”

Bodie looked at Doyle. “So we talk to Cowley?”

“You know. Our boss,” Doyle said to Thomas. “CI5’s remit is astonishingly vague. Anything that Cowley thinks is a threat to Britain’s security. It's a good thing that Cowley isn't power mad. Otherwise he'd be running Great Britain like his own personal fiefdom. God knows what he's got on all the great and the good.”

***

Cowley needed surprisingly little persuasion to let them add investigating the Ripper case to their current caseload.

If you assumed that the Ripper was one of the three men who had seen the results, then that gave three suspects: Detective Superintendent Laughton and detectives Crowe and Purvis. Doyle had given Cowley the three names and the next day, rather in the manner of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Cowley had handed them three rather abridged personnel files (not even Cowley was omnipotent) and a firmly worded suggestion to consult Dr Kate Ross regarding the killer’s psychological profile.

***

You would have thought it was Christmas, judging from the expression on Kate Ross’s face. Both Bodie and Doyle in her office at once?

Not that Bodie had anything against Kate, but she had a bad habit of noticing things Bodie didn’t want noticed. And then asking about them.

Doyle handed her the three personnel files and explained the problem.

Kate gave Doyle her standard-issue exasperated look. “You want me to tell you which one of these three men is a serial killer based on their files? I suppose I should be glad you think I’m useful for something.”

Doyle sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “It would make our lives simpler.”

Kate put the files on the desk unopened. “Before I look at the files, I’d like to start off listing probabilities. Your killer is probably Caucasian, since serial killers tend to kill people of the same race.” She looked at Bodie and Doyle. “I’m guessing that’s no help?”

Bodie and Doyle nodded.

“Almost certainly male, given his choice of victims and the methods he used to kill them. Also no help?” She didn’t wait for Bodie and Doyle to nod. “Has access to a car, organized, of average or above average intelligence, tattoo on his left shoulder blade...”

“How can you tell a thing like that?”

“I can’t. I was just checking you were listening.” Huh. Kate had a sense of humor. Who knew?

Kate leaned forward and steepled her hands. “So let’s turn to motive. Serial killers’ motives have been divided into four categories: psychotic, pleasure, getting rid of undesirables, and as way of exerting power. So which ones apply to your killer here? You think he’s a policeman which implies that he presents as in control. So probably not psychosis. He’s killing prostitutes, so it could be getting rid of undesirables. Pleasure? There are a number of people working in law enforcement who enjoy violence.”

Bodie couldn’t help noticing the way Kate maintained eye contact with him during that last sentence.

“No sexual interference, though. Still the choice of make prostitutes is telling. It does suggest some latent homosexual tendencies.”

Yes, Kate was looking at him again. Good thing Bodie had an alibi, really.

“That's not something that’s going to be found in the personnel files,” said Doyle. “Anything else that might be...”

Don’t say useful, Doyle. It will just put Kate’s back up.

“... useful?”

“We could look at the characteristics of so-called ‘organized serial killers’.” She leant forward, putting on what Bodie considered her serious face. “These are just generalizations, but personality traits exhibited by serial killers include lack of impulse control, superficial charm and glibness. They may have been juvenile delinquents.”

Bodie could sense Doyle making an effort not to look at him. He was pretty sure Doyle’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

Kate ignored Doyle. Probably the wisest thing to do. She opened up the files and started reading. Periodically she would make a humming noise.

There was a copy of a journal Kate had left on her otherwise pristine desk, so Doyle picked it up and started flipping through it. It appeared to be highly amusing if Doyle’s snickering was anything to go by. Did psychology journals have comic strips? Bodie leant over to see what was so entertaining. Doyle just angled the journal away.

Kate closed the last of the files. “I should emphasize that it would be completely unprofessional to give you an opinion based purely on these files.”

Doyle put the journal back down on her desk. “Want to give us an unprofessional opinion then?”

“Purvis. I’ll spare you my rationale, since it wouldn’t count as evidence in court and I assume you’re planning to do something amazingly stupid, like have one of you pretend to be a male prostitute and attempt to get murdered in the line of duty.”

Bodie couldn’t help notice how Doyle brightened up at that idea. Bodie kicked him.

“I note that neither of you is denying it. May I make a suggestion?” Kate didn’t wait for them to reply. “Go back to your computer friend...”

Was there an unnecessary emphasis on the word ’friend’? Had Kate noticed something that Bodie hadn’t?

“...and get him to rewrite the program to figure out where Purvis is most likely to strike.”

“We were going to do that.”

“And then get him to doctor the results so that they exclude part of the likely area. It’s not guaranteed to work, but it may steer Purvis into the excluded area, reducing the size of the area you need to stake out.”

Doyle nodded. “That’s a great suggestion.”

“And I wouldn’t mind meeting your computer friend. He sounds very interesting.”

“He’s taken,” Doyle said firmly.

Kate looked smug. “I meant professionally.”

Just because Doyle hadn’t mentioned Thomas having a boyfriend didn’t mean there wasn’t a boyfriend, Bodie told himself. On the other hand, would Thomas’s boyfriend be amenable to Thomas spending all his time and... Bodie’s chain of thought was interrupted by Doyle tugging him out of the chair and out of Kate’s office.

“If you sat there much longer without saying anything, Kate was going to remember your mandatory psychological exam,” said Doyle as he strode down the corridor. “And I know you’ve been putting a lot of work into avoiding it.”

Bodie shuddered. He was still recovering from last year’s word association test.

Doyle rounded the corner and came to a sudden stop. “Ok. Next steps. I’m off to talk to Thomas about tweaking his search results like Kate suggested.”

“Not taking me with you?” asked Bodie before he could stop himself.

Doyle shrugged. “You’ve been giving the impression that you don’t much like Thomas. And you’ve made your views on the Met fairly clear, so I thought I’d save everyone concerned an unpleasant experience.”

“We’re partners,” said Bodie firmly. “I go where you go. Someone has to guard your back.”

“It’s the Met. How badly could I get in trouble there?”

There was a long pause in which Bodie resisted listing all the possibilities, both probable and improbable.

“Fine,” said Doyle. “But I’m driving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it didn’t make it into the chapter, Doyle's source of amusement in the psychological journal was an article entitled “Latent homosexuality in the hypermasculinized professions". Happily for Doyle's sanity, he hadn’t yet gotten to the case studies. (Kate keeps *her* sanity by writing pseudonymous articles for academic journals.)


	5. Chapter 5

The big blue car drove slowly past Doyle, a shadowy figure at the wheel. Bodie felt his heartbeat speed up. Three and a half weeks to come up with a ridiculously flimsy plan, and if they’d guessed wrong, someone was going to die.

Doyle, as everyone (except Thomas) had known he would, had volunteered as bait. It was too risky to use a civilian; they needed to use someone who could defend himself. And of the male members of CI5, Doyle was the one most with the closest physical resemblance to the Ripper’s previous victims. 

Which was why Doyle was standing on a deserted street in a far too thin t-shirt looking ever-so-slightly desperate to get out of the cold. Bodie’d known him long enough to see how tense he was, but to the casual onlooker he was all loose limbs and swagger. 

A shuttered store provided cover for Bodie, Susan, Murphy (he’d recently been dumped, so he was up for a clandestine operation), and Thomas. Much to Bodie’s irritation, Thomas had insisted on coming along. But Doyle hadn’t objected, so Bodie had kept his comments about the dangers of untrained amateurs to himself. Mostly.

The car reversed to where Doyle was standing. Doyle leant towards the passenger window and said something to the driver. They‘d agreed Doyle would only get in the car if the driver was Purvis, or, less likely, one of their other suspects. (“What if it’s Laughton?” Bodie had asked. “He’ll recognize you.”  Doyle’d just shrugge d which wasn’t much of a plan.) 

Across the street Bodie could see Doyle nod and open the car door. The interior light didn’t come on, so Bodie couldn’t get a look at the driver. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? The licence plate of the blue car wasn’t Purvis’s, but they hadn’t expected him to make that mistake. Doyle slammed the car door hard―did he really think they weren’t paying attention?―and the car took off.

Murphy disassembled the camera gear with a speed that came from frequent practice. “Got the licence plate.”

The four of them waited for the car to round the corner before they ran out to Bodie’s Ford . Doyle had a tracking device on him but in Bodie's experience those things stopped working at the worst possible time. And while he had every confidence in Doyle’s ability to defend himself, Purvis had already killed multiple times.

“Forensic evidence suggests that he usually drives them to an isolated area about five minutes away from where he picks them up,” Thomas said unnecessarily. Everyone in the car already knew that.

In the rear view mirror, Bodie could see Susan put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder to reassure him. Right. Thomas had never seen Doyle run heedlessly into danger before. Bodie had, plenty of times, and he still didn’t like it.

“Given the direction he’s driving, the most likely place is the park off Churchill Road,” said Susan who had been the one responsible for scouting the area. “He’ll be doing a right shortly if that’s where...  And there he goes. Bodie, go down Walthamstow so we can come in from the other side of the park.”

The park was a scrubby piece of land, designed by a Victorian city planner who’d hoped to brighten the lives of the deserving poor. He’d not anticipated the cost-cutting ways of the current borough council. All the streetlights in it were burnt out; all the shrubbery was overgrown. Perfect for the kind of activity where you didn’t want witnesses.

As soon as Bodie pulled the car over, he and Murphy leapt out. No closing of car doors: they didn’t want to take any chances of warning the Ripper. There was a very dark patch in the middle of the park that Bodie instinctively headed towards, Murphy right behind him. The two of them had worked together enough that they didn’t need to discuss what they were going to do. It wasn’t the same magical coordination he had with Doyle, but Bodie had complete confidence that Murphy’d be where he should be. 

Susan, bless her, had agreed to be on Thomas-sitting duty with astonishing good grace.

Bodie and Murphy were only a metre or so into the park when the screaming started. Bodie sprinted towards where the noise was coming from. He turned on his torch and shone it on the darkened figures on the grass. 

Bodie needn’t have worried. One psychopathic serial-killing police officer versus an unarmed Doyle was never going to be a fair match. 

A man (presumably Purvis, although it was hard to tell from just the back of his head) was face down on the ground and making unhappy groaning sounds. A rather nasty looking knife was lying just out of his reach. Doyle, inexplicably topless and bleeding from one shoulder, was sitting on top of him and grinning like a maniac. “Guess what I found?”

***

Purvis had protested his innocence, up to the point “trophies” had been found in his home. At that point he had started screaming that CI5 had framed him. Given Bodie, Doyle and Susan’s evidence, even the Chief Constable had a hard time believing that one. Doyle had let Purvis get rather further than Bodie would have preferred just to make sure that there was no question about his intentions.  Thomas’s role in the whole matter had been glossed over.

“I have been informed,” said Cowley as he poured them all measures of his second best whisky, “that no charges will be laid. Purvis is now a patient of Reston and will remain there until he is deemed fit to stand trial.”

Ah. So the whole matter was being swept under the rug. 

“The Chief Constable doesn’t want it to be on the front page of The Sun,” translated Doyle, who rarely saw any reason to be tactful in front of Cowley. 

“The Chief Constable doesn’t want to undermine the confidence of the public in the police force,” corrected Cowley.

Doyle swirled his whisky around in his glass. “And the Ripper Task Force?”

“Decommissioned. it’s been made very clear that the subject is a minefield best avoided by any member of the force.”

“And the press? Someone’s going to notice that there’s no longer a Ripper Task Force. Or any dead bodies.” You’d think after serving in CI5 for so long, Doyle might have got a little less enthusiastic about doing things by the book. But no.

“There will always be dead bodies, laddie. As for Fleet Street, I informed the Chief Constable that if any journalists asked awkward questions, we’d find something to distract them.”

Bodie really didn’t like the look of Cowley’s smile.

“I didn’t know there were interesting photos of the Chief Constable floating about,” said Doyle, who liked to live dangerously. 

“I didn’t say that,” said Cowley, and glared at Doyle. 

Which meant Doyle’s guess was probably correct. Bodie took a large swallow of his whisky and tried to pretend he didn’t know Doyle. Not that it ever worked.

Obviously deciding that the direction of the conversation was best changed, Cowley added, “I understand Dr Ross’s contributions to this enterprise were of great assistance. She informs me that she plans to visit Purvis, once he’s settled in. She’s hoping to write an article about him for some psychology journal. Suitably anonymized of course. We wouldn’t want to inadvertently embarrass the Chief Constable.”

“Of course not,” agreed Bodie. Cowley never did anything inadvertently.

“Kate writes articles?” asked Doyle sounding slightly breathless.

Susan made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

Crowley looked irritated with Doyle’s sudden interest in the subject. “Under a pseudonym, obviously.”

Doyle turned an interesting shade of magenta. “And you allow this?”

“Like I said, under a pseudonym. I can’t say I agree with all her conclusions, but she is writing in her professional sphere, not mine. Do you have any objections, Doyle?”

Doyle, now slightly less purple, shook his head.

“What was that about?” asked Bodie as they were exiting Crowley’s office.

Doyle got that tight-lipped look to him, the one that said it was useless to try to pry information out of him. “You really, really don’t want to know.”

Bodie really, really did.


	6. Chapter 6

Drinks with Thomas again. This was becoming an unpleasant habit. Bodie hoped Thomas didn’t have any other serial killers up his sleeve. 

Although he supposed he was going to have to learn to tolerate Thomas if he was going to continue to be in Doyle’s life. It wasn’t like he was bad company. Under any other circumstances, Bodie might have even quite liked him. 

Take now, for example. The three of them were sitting outside a rather nice pub, with Thomas carrying out a highly slanderous re-enactment of Laughton’s announcement that the Ripper task force was being disbanded. Highly embellished, if Bodie was any judge, but Thomas was an impressive mimic.

“And then Laughton says, with an absolutely straight face, that it was a pity Purvis couldn’t be here today for the conclusion of the case, but he was away sick. He was so convincing, I started questioning whether Laughton actually knew what had happened. And then one of the frightfully keen DCs asked about sending a get well card, and Laughton turned puce and told us we were done.”

Doyle cackled so hard with laughter, part of his pint went down the wrong way. 

Thomas slapped him on the back. “You survived the Ripper. I’d rather not see you taken down by a beer. How’s the shoulder feeling today? Better than last night?”

Last night? Doyle had seen Thomas last night? Doyle had told told Bodie he was too tired to even get take out. 

Bodie might have growled. 

Without blinking an eye, Thomas stood up. “Think it’s my round. Same again?” He strode off without waiting for an answer.

Bodie had to say something.

“Doyle, you’ve read the small print. We’d be out on our ear if Cowley found out that we were opening ourselves up to blackmail.”

Doyle’s mouth dropped open. “Bodie, what the hell are you talking about?”

Bodie paused. Had he really got it that wrong? Even if Thomas and Doyle weren’t - no, he wasn’t going to think about it - but even if they weren’t doing what he absolutely wasn’t thinking about, surely Doyle had to have noticed Thomas’s behaviour. “Doyle, Thomas likes you.”

“Of course he likes me. We’re friends.” Something in Bodie’s expression must have given the game away. “Oh. Likes me.” Doyle shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Thomas is completely not interested in me. But even if he were, why would anyone care?”

“Cowley...”

“And don’t say Cowley. Bodie, even you can’t be that naive. Cowley’d object to us putting ourselves in a position where we could be blackmailed or embarrass CI5, but other than that...” Doyle spread his hands. “Cowley’s a pragmatist. I mean, he’d object to me having it off with Thomas on his desk, but as long as we were discreet...”

There was something very painful in the pit of Bodie’s stomach. “So you and Thomas are...?” He couldn’t complete the sentence.

“I just told you. We're friends. I am completely and utterly not Thomas’s type. He likes them blonde and busty.”

Bodie opened his mouth.

“And smart. He’s dating Susan.”

“Susan?” asked Bodie indignantly. “He could have said. Here was I thinking...”

Doyle looked at him. “I know exactly what you were thinking. Bodie, would it have been a problem for you if Thomas and I were more than just friends?”

“Of course not!”

Doyle looked at him. Really looked at him. Started at the top of his head and slowly moved his eyes downward. Almost as if he were trying to memorize him. It was unnerving.

“Doyle?”

“Bodie, you know you’re my best mate, right? Thomas is a good friend, but he’s not you.”

Bodie wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. “Yeah.”

“But I don’t tell you everything. There’s stuff in my past I’d rather not think about if I can help it.” 

Given the sheer amount that Bodie had never - would never - tell Doyle, he'd be a hypocrite to object to that. “And?”

Doyle stared at the ground. “If your interview with Cowley when you started the job was anything like mine, he made you confess everything and anything in your history that might ever be a factor while working for CI5.”

Bodie thought back to that interview. It had been terrifying. Cowley had known a disturbing amount about his past, and what he hadn't known he'd guessed. Correctly. Bodie’d almost been tempted to tell Cowley where he could stuff his job. Then Cowley had pointed out the value of discretion, and Bodie had realized that he was getting tacit approval to do things that he would have to be discreet about. He'd never had quite that latitude in the army.

Wait... was Doyle telling him he'd had the same conversation with Cowley? His heart sped up a fraction, but he tried to keep any sign of tension off his face. “Yeah. So?”

“So is there anything that came up in that interview that you might like to share with me?”

Was there? Was this Doyle’s incredibly tactful way of asking if he was gay?

“I like birds.”

Doyle sighed. “Not what I asked. I like birds too, but I’m bisexual. Cowley knows, doesn’t care, just as long as I don’t do anything to embarrass him or CI5.” His eyes narrowed. “Now are you going to punch me, or you going to be open-minded about this?”

Oh. “You never told me.”

“Why would I have done a thing like that? It wasn’t like we were going to going to be out pulling blokes together. Was it?”

Bodie imagined going to a gay bar with Doyle and watching Doyle pick up someone else and... Oh. Apparently that strange feeling was jealousy. He swallowed. “Don’t think so.”

“So you can see why I didn’t tell you then.”

There was a very long pause while Bodie considered all possible options for what he could say next. He settled on “I don’t have any problems with you being bisexual.”

Doyle gave him a sharp look. “Well, that’s sorted then.” He opened his mouth to say something else.

Which was when Thomas returned. “You wouldn’t believe the line up at the bar.” Thomas handed Bodie and Doyle their pints. Bodie had no idea it was possible to be happy to see Thomas. Oh well. New experiences every day.

Bodie tried to think of something to say. “So Doyle tells me you’re seeing Susan?”

Thomas smiled. “Not seriously. Yet.” He took a sip of his gin and tonic.

Doyle turned to Thomas. “You owe me ten quid.”

Thomas reached into his wallet and handed Doyle a ten pound note. “Well, that would explain the awkward silence when I arrived back with the drinks.”

Bodie looked at Doyle and then at Thomas. “Why do you owe him ten quid?”

Doyle opened his mouth to say something, but Thomas beat him to it. “I bet him ten pounds that he could try it on with you and you wouldn’t punch him. Literally or figuratively.”

Doyle glared at Thomas, but it wasn’t his serious glare. More of his Bodie-did-you-really-have-to-say-that-to-Cowley glare. In other circumstances Bodie might have minded, but at this particular moment in time...

Bodie snatched the money out of Doyle’s hand. “Technically, he hasn’t tried anything on with me. How does he know I’m going to punch him?” He crossed his arms and tried to look stern.

Thomas looked smug. 

Doyle looked poleaxed. 

Bodie leant back. “Go ahead then. Try something on.”

“Wait... what? Here?”

Bodie looked around. It was a bit public for what he hoped Doyle had in mind. “Fine. Want to come back to my place?”

“It’s Doyle who’s meant to be trying it on with you, not the other way round,” said Thomas helpfully.

Bodie could tell that glaring at Thomas would be a complete waste of energy. Energy he was rather hoping he’d need for later.

“Fine,” said Doyle, and if you didn’t know him better you’d think he sounded grumpy. “Bodie, want to come back to my place? Thomas, you’re not invited.”

Thomas didn’t look disappointed in the least.


End file.
